


Playing for Keeps

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-15
Updated: 2006-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson forgets how quickly House can move when he wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing for Keeps

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to see if I could write something ~~smutty~~ different. Many thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/daasgrrl/profile)[**daasgrrl**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/daasgrrl/) for her thoughtful read-through.

  
**STATUS:** Revised version, crossposted to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/the_smut_couch/profile)[**the_smut_couch**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/the_smut_couch/) , 8/26/2006  
 **TITLE:** Playing for Keeps  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/nightdog_writes/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/nightdog_writes/)  
 **PAIRING:** House/Wilson  
 **RATING:** NC-17  
 **WARNINGS:** Dominant!House + a wall + a cane = a warning.  
 **SUMMARY:** Wilson forgets how quickly House can move when he wants to.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** I wanted to see if I could write something ~~smutty~~ different. Many thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/daasgrrl/profile)[**daasgrrl**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/daasgrrl/) for her thoughtful read-through.  
 **BETA:** Nope. **Silverjackal** stayed far away from this one.

  


  
 _for **Lesliee41** , who asked for a cane story_

  
 **Playing For Keeps**

  
One thing Wilson tends to forget about House -- even with a bum leg and a cane, the man can be damn quick when he wants.

How else to explain the sudden, almost balletic pivot on his heels, the slight lowering of the shoulder, the jarring body-slam into the wall?

James never sees it coming, and he stands trapped by House's weight, trying to catch his breath. The force of the blow has knocked a framed photograph off the hallway wall; broken glass sparkles on the hardwood floor.

"Fuck, House ... what are you _doing?_ " He squirms a little, trying to maneuver out from between House and the unforgiving wall, but the taller man simply presses closer, denying him escape.

"Is this another power game? Because you're making it really hard to breathe."

House's face is inches from his own, and there's a wild blue fire in those eyes; a kind of manic glee.

 _Shit ... too much Vicodin and Scotch again,_ James thinks. He knows his friend has had a rough week -- his team overwhelmed with an unusually large number of patients with frustratingly mysterious symptoms; they'd lost two before even completing the differential. House isn't used to losing patients, at least not in multiples.

Wilson puts his hand on House's arm, intending to move him gently away, but House is having none of that.

"Not this time, Jimmy," he growls, and brings up the cane he's been holding all this time, flipping it level and laying it hard against the base of James's throat, both hands gripping the wooden shaft by James's shoulders. Bracing himself with his good leg, he thrusts the other between Jimmy's legs.

Shocked into stillness, Wilson can only stare. He can smell the Scotch on House's breath; imagine the bitter Vicodin on the tongue.

House has him expertly pinned. To stop this now (whatever _this_ is), he'll have to lunge forward, use House's bad leg against him and possibly send him crashing to the floor into the shattered glass.

He can't do that.

House sees the dawning awareness in Wilson's eyes, and a feral grin stretches his face.

"Can't hurt the cripple, eh Jimmy?" he murmurs. "That'll always be your downfall. You're too damn _nice_ for your own good."

He lifts the cane shaft from James's throat, only to move it a little further up, above the larynx to the soft skin just under the jaw. House is careful, avoiding the larynx itself and the known pressure points of the major arteries -- the common carotids, left and right; the triangle, the jugular, the subclavian.

Wilson stands very still, the pressure from House's leg in his groin causing a slow warmth to spread upwards, and repeats his question.

"House ... what are you doing?" It's difficult to speak; the words emerge in a harsh whisper.

The cane moves again. Now it's under his chin, forcing his head back slow millimeters at a time. House's knuckles are white where he grips his cane.

"I lose things, Jimmy. Legs, girlfriends, patients ... I won't lose you."

 _I'm not going anywhere,_ James wants to say, but between the cane and the constraint of House's body on his ribs, he can't draw enough breath to get the words out. Hands pressed against the wall, there's a roaring in his ears as he realizes he's harder than he's ever been in his life.

His head is forced further back, exposing his suddenly vulnerable throat in a textbook example of brutal dominance and submission. He wishes for a moment he could see House's face, but all he's got is a view of the ceiling through slitted eyes. His breath comes in rasping gasps now and he whimpers involuntarily as House shifts his weight slightly and leans in, lips brushing the side of James's neck.

 _"Mine,"_ House breathes, and bites, hard enough to draw blood.

Wilson's brain yanks his body upward, a reaction to the sudden sensory overload. A yelp chokes off in his throat. Held fast by House's weight, he squirms again against the wall, the wainscoting digging painfully into his back.

The cane is gone, replaced by House's teeth and tongue as he nips and licks the tender skin around James's jawline. House's voice, murmuring in his ear.

 _"Pants."_

And Wilson's hands, given something to do at last, fumble with the belt buckle, the buttons, the zipper of his dress slacks. The pants slide down his legs and are only kept from puddling on the floor by House's knee, still wedged between his thighs.

A hand slips into his boxers; House's fingers twining into the curly pubic hair, stroking the thin, delicate scrotal sac.

James knows he's moaning and can't stop.

"You want this, Jimmy? You want this?"

James would say "yes", but the capacity for coherent thought has abandoned him as House's hand encircles his cock, his thumb gently rubbing the glans, slicking it with pre-ejaculate. Wilson tries instinctively to push forward, but the forearm across his chest holds him back. He's panting for air, eyes closed, head tilting back again.

House plays with him; alternately stroking his erect cock, then cupping and gently teasing his balls, his hand growing more and more wet and slick.

Wilson can feel himself teetering on the edge -- the small muscles starting to contract, the unstoppable process in full motion.

House feels it too, and tightens his hand suddenly.

James falls off the edge.

He shivers in the flood of endorphins, drowning; a low, keening whine in his throat. A dizzying blackness swirls behind his eyelids. He dimly realizes he's grabbed hold of House's waist, and thinks _Who's holding up whom?_

His boxers are damp and sticky as House slowly removes his hand and holds it up before James's dazed eyes.

The pressure on his chest never eases as blue eyes lock into brown, and he watches House stick his fingers, wet with James's semen, into his mouth and lick them clean.

House holds his gaze as he casually wipes his hand on Wilson's disheveled shirt. The look of crazed glee has vanished, replaced by a steady, thoughtful expression that is somehow even more unsettling. Carefully disengaging himself, he leans in close one more time and finally answers James's question.

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law."

  
~fin


End file.
